


Things Go Bump In The Night

by supersoakerx



Category: Hungry Hearts (2014)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Creampie, Creampie with intention to breed, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Impregnation talk, No Aftercare, Physical Struggle, Rape Fantasy, Rape Play, Rape Roleplay, Slapping, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Degradation, breeding talk, gagging, improvised bondage, play rape, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27855506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: You knew, when you both left for work that morning, that the next time you’d be seeing each other will be under the cover of darkness, inverydifferent circumstances.“Go on, little dove,” he says. “Try to fly away.”
Relationships: Jude (Hungry Hearts)/Reader, Jude (Hungry Hearts)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Things Go Bump In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a v taboo kink—don’t like don’t read don’t be at me  
> But if you are a complete animal, like me, you might like this like I like this  
> I’m so sorry

For a few days beforehand you’d tried to distance yourselves from each other.

Only quick pecks to cheeks, and very little physical contact elsewise. Conversations were pleasant, but brief and light: nothing too ‘couple-y’, meaningful, deep or serious.

You each found things to do on your own around the old two-storey terrace house you shared.

One of them, was to read and watch as much rape play porn as you could get your eyes on, and intentionally not act on it—which left the pair of you positively aching by the third day.

You knew, when you both left for work that morning, that the next time you’d be seeing each other will be under the cover of darkness, in _very_ different circumstances.

**XXXX**

He waits outside, in the car, parked across the road—until he sees the bedroom light go out.

You’d gone to bed. Finished reading. Turned the light off.

Pulled the covers up over your scantily-clad body and snuggled in for sleep.

This much you’d agreed: after lights out, he’d come for you.

You didn’t know exactly when, and you didn’t know exactly how he was going to get into the place… but he come he would, like a thief, _or worse_ , in the night.

Head on the pillow, eyes closed, you try to relax.

It’s so quiet, in your bedroom, without the gentle rhythm of Jude’s own soft breathing next to you. There’s just a hint of light peeking in through the curtains, but barely, from a glowing yellow streetlamp a little ways down from your front door.

You think of it, the ornate wooden panel in heritage transom frame, and it’s almost like you can hear the squeak of it opening.

How silly, you tell yourself. You’re imagining things, and besides, you’d locked it.

You swore you’d locked it.

You’d checked it, hadn’t you?

You hush your breathing, listening for something like the key turning in the lock, the tell-tale click, the creak of that one floorboard underfoot in the entryway… but you hear nothing. You assure yourself that you’d checked both the doors, front and back, and twice. They’re locked. You’re safe.

Right?

Out of the silence comes a creak on the stairs—and everything freezes.

Someone’s here.

Heat, adrenaline, rushes to the surface of your skin. Your heart leaps up into your throat to beat in your ears. You can barely hear your own breath as you crane to hear for any sound that would signal an intruder, and confirm your worst fear…

There’s silence.

You try to take a deep breath, but it feels like you can’t drag air in deep enough. It’s just this old house, you tell yourself, heart pounding; things go bump in the night all the time here, always.

Such attempts at rationalisation do nothing to quell the alarm flaring in your every limb.

You scrunch your eyes shut tight, and will yourself to get a fucking grip, woman. Your whole body feels frozen in place, but on fire, and you have to mentally talk yourself through rolling over onto the other side of your body before your brain and muscles catch up to each other and move.

You’re facing away from the door now, and something about that terrifies you even more.

For countless long moments you wait, trying to regain some of the weariness that had led you to switch the light off in the first place, but poised as if in a state of readiness to leap and run from this place. Your heart beats steadily, loud and insistent, and you feel it _everywhere_ , now—even down between your legs.

You decide to count.

Yeah, that’ll help.

You take a breath in, and count to one, two, three, four; and out—two, three, four.

In—

Your bedroom door slams open with a loud bang as the wood smacks into the armoire he’d gotten from his mother’s before the estate sale.

You yelp, the sound and force of the crash so sudden as you whip around in the sheets and blankets, panic seizing your lungs, choking your throat.

Your brain goes into survival mode.

Man. Tall. Big. _Here_.

The hooded invader lunges for you, leaping onto the bed with a growl and throwing all of his weight on top of you.

Breath comes hard through your nose, your clenched teeth, as you push and shove at him. “No,” you grit out, “get back.” You bring your legs up to kick him away but his legs anchor the blankets to the mattress, pinning you down.

“Get a _way_ from me,” you say, your voice fierce now, shoving your palms into his face and solid shoulders and trying to scratch his face and neck with your nails.

Big hands catch your flailing wrists and pin them to the pillow your head rests on. He squeezes, hard, tight, too tight.

“You wanna fight me?” he huffs, almost breathless against your floundering.

“You’re hurting me.” You try to tug your hands from his grasp but he pushes down harder, squeezes your flesh down to the bone. He bears down on your form, leaning his weight into it, crushing you.

You spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

Seconds later a firm, flat palm lands a hard slap across your cheek, the force of it tossing your head to the side.

He grabs your throat, squeezing the pliant muscles and soft flesh beneath his palm. “You’ll give me what I want, dead or alive.”

“No,” your small voice squeaks, and he tightens his grip on your neck. “Never,” your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore, with all the pressure he’s putting on your vocal cords. You kick your legs under him, your calves sliding along the sheets. You push at his upper arm: a useless attempt at freedom.

“Shut up.” His mashes his palm to your face and turns your head roughly to the side. He kicks away the mess of sheets and blankets and you hear two zippers yanked undone—one, his hoodie, and the other, the fly of his jeans.

“Stop, please. I’ve got money—cash. And jewellery, I’ve got gold and sil—,”

Another hard crack to the side of your face, warmth blooming, before his big hand pushes your face away again. “I said,” he breaths into your ear, speaking through gritted teeth, “to shut the fuck up.”

One of his fingers is right near your mouth. You bite down on it, hard.

“Fuck!” He yanks his hand from your face. He sits up on top of you, shaking the sting from his hand before wrenching his hoodie off. You see properly now, he’s not wearing anything underneath.

You try to wriggle free. Try to scoot yourself out from under where his pelvis and tree-trunk thighs anchor you down. Your palms slip on the sheet, sweaty, and there’s no fucking way you can move him off you if he doesn’t wanna go. Not without his help.

You’re stuck here.

He spies your sleep shorts as you writhe beneath him. Thin, flimsy cotton things you’d found in the back of your wardrobe.

Old. Tear easy.

He shuffles down some, and with two hands he grips the material at the seam—right at the crotch—and shreds them asunder, recklessly pulling on some of your curls as he does it.

“No!” you try to squeeze and hold your thighs together, try to close in on yourself.

He presses a hot hand to your chest, pushing down on your sternum, his fingertips grazing the bottom of your throat.

You suddenly realise—with both hands, if he pushed down hard enough—he could probably break your rib cage apart.

“Oh, my God,” you gasp quickly, quietly; a flicker of real, cold fear running up your spine. “Please.”

He grunts in response, and wrenches his fully erect cock from inside his trunks. “This what you want?”

“No, nno.”

“This why you’re saying ‘please’?” He pushes harder on your chest, forcing you into the mattress, as he manhandles your legs apart to get himself between them.

“No! No. Oh, God. _Stop_.”

He holds his cock, jabbing it into your core—clumsy, unfamiliar. A grunt of frustration rumbles in his throat.

Your hips buck and twist, trying not to give him access to your centre. Trying to get him away from you. He hadn’t prepared you, and it didn’t look like he was going to.

“Stay fucking still,” he grumbles, trailing the head of his dick from your clit, down to part your slit, pushing your lips apart around his cock head until it slips inside you.

“Stop it!” you plead, “don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He stops, and in the low, barely-there light from the street outside your window—you can make out he’s looking straight at you.

He says, “You know I can take whatever I want.” – and shoves his cock into your cunt.

“ _No!_ ” you cry out, the burning stinging stretch of it making your skin flush with heat, making your eyes water.

He huffs, panting, fingers flexing on your sternum. He grabs one of your legs and pushes it out to the side, pushing your inner thigh into the mattress to hold you firmly down.

He’s half-way there, but he doesn’t care about that. He starts to rut into you anyway, grunting as your slick-sodden walls coax him in, suck on him.

You gasp over the word ‘no’, then implore him, “Please, no more. I won’t press charges. I won’t tell anyone—just please, stop this.”

“Shut. The fuck. _Up_ ,” he raises his voice, puffing the words out between stabs into your pussy. He crowds you as he uses your hole, leaning down and over you; and when he closes his hand over your mouth to silence you, the hate he sees in your narrowed eyes sends a sick shiver of pleasure up his spine.

“Uhghh, fuck,” he shoves your face away, hands clasped over your lips as he grunts into your pillow.

“Hhhnnmmh,” your muffled voice strains to make audible words. You pant hard through your nose, sucking in air quickly, your hot exhale skimming over his fingers.

Maybe it’s because you’ve caught the scent of his hair and his clothes, or because the weight of him on you is familiar, or because his dick is filling you out like only his can… but a fresh hot flood of your arousal coats his cock.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, as your pussy makes a sick squishing squelch with every prod of his cock. “Wet fucking cunt. Fuck.”

“Hmmmnnh,” you try to verbalise something, _anything_ , but the slide of his thick fat cock is making you dumb.

“Shit! Fuck,” he huffs breathlessly, using your chin as a surface to rotate his hand and shove four fingers into your mouth.

“Nngghh,” your throat rejects them immediately, and you try to make your protest known. “Nmffph.”

“’d your mother teach you anything?” he pants. He shoves his fingers further, feels your lips stretching around his digits, “or she a whore like you?” and then, finally, his fingertips graze the hard slippery wall of your throat.

You gag noisily, your stomach tensing tight, your pussy clenching on his dick.

“Talk with a full fuckin’ mouth. Ahh _shit_.”

You squirm and wriggle your arms free, and push at his face and shoulders. He nudges and ducks out of your attempted holds, then strokes the back of your throat again, and you wretch once more on his fingers.

Before you clamp your teeth down hard.

“God! _Damn it_ ,” he barks out loudly, withstanding the assault of your top and bottom rows. “Stop it,” he mutters, “enough. Stop.”

You rip your teeth away right as he wrenches his fingers from your mouth. “Get off me,” you gasp out, pushing closed fists into his pecs, “get _out_ of me.”

“Nnguhh, don’t fight me. _Don’t_ fight me.” He catches your wrists and pins them beside your head again. You try to trap his sides with your thighs, to lift and shift your pelvis away from him, but his hips are on a piston, his dick knocking around somewhere deep your gut. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t fucking like it,” he spits out.

You cry out, “no, _please_. Please, stop.”

He’s never been fucking harder than in this moment, holding you down as he fucks into your helpless, pliant cunt: you, begging him for it to end. “You like it. You want it. You fucking slut—,”

“No!”

“—sick of looking at your fucking slut face.”

“Please!”

He withdraws quickly, slipping out of your sloppy pussy to push and pull you into a new position on your belly. You struggle and squirm, writhing and thrashing to get free of his grip, until he straddles your hips—hot, hard, wet cock falling onto your back—and leans over you, tying your wrists together with your torn up old booty shorts.

“Fuckin’ head down,” he mutters gruffly, shoving your skull back between your outstretched arms when you lift your head up to try to see.

Seconds later you feel the foot of the bed dip. He walks on his knees, murmuring, “move, move,” to get you to spread your legs apart.

Palms facing up, he dips two fingers into your pussy, and lifts.

“Get this ass up.”

“Jesus, no,” you plead into the mattress, feeling the heat of your own breath. Your hips rise with his demanding fingers.

“Up, up, up,” he murmurs, until you’re on your knees, arms stretched out in front of you, bound firmly at the wrist.

The hot, silky head of his cock glides through your slick pussy lips, and you whimper in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard yourself use. “Please. No.”

He pushes into your cunt with a deep, satisfied grunt, then grabs your hips with one dry and one sticky hand.

It’s all you can do to whisper, over and over, “oh God.”

Then, he slams into you, and you squeal.

He grunts through clenched teeth, “ohh. _Yeahh_.”

The push and drag of his dick, at this angle, is so fucking mind-blowing that after your initial outburst, for a long moment, you can’t make any sound at all. As low as your draw is dropping, it just won’t come out. The only noises in the room are his panting breaths and the slap of his balls into your clit and mons.

“Finally shut you up.” He pounds into you deep, gripping onto your hips so hard and squeezing so tight, pinching and rolling your skin in a way that’s gonna leave marks. He ploughs your cunt, single-minded, burrowing it out so fast and hard he’s gonna bruise you on the inside, too. And the grunting—Jesus—like a goddamn animal.

It’s then that your brain finally connects the feeling in your cunt with a sensation you can respond to, and a low, deep, long moan of, “ _fuck_ ,” is wrenched from your chest.

“Use this fucking hole,” he huffs, _slapslapslap_ -ping into you, “use it for the only thing it’s good for.”

“ _Please_ , no. Please, don’t!” you shriek, as he rattles your bones in their sockets. “You’re going too hard,” you whimper. Gasping and breathless, you say, “too much, too big, _please_ stop.”

He groans, a deep and evil thing, then reaches forward to make a fist in your hair, before pulling your head up.

Your neck is bent as far back as it can go.

“Please,” you cry out, “you’re _hurting_ me.”

“Too big, huh,” he murmurs, “too big for this little cunt.” Fingertips graze your clit and you pitch forward, your scalp stinging from the pull.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you spit. The idea that he’d try and make you cum sends disgust and arousal to war in your head.

He swipes at your clit, rubbing it just the way that makes you gush and cry.

“Noo!” you shriek, shrill and desperate: desperate for release, and equally desperate not to find it—not like this.

He rubs your clit faster, harder, and drops his hips with a groan, changing the angle and brushing up against all your walls in a whole new way.

Your pleasure builds, heating up, rising and cresting and drawing a scream from your throat. You can feel it coming, and it makes you so ashamed that hot, angry tears well in your eyes. You try to free your hands, but he’s knotted the material too tight to give—so you try to thrash against his hold, listing and twisting this way and that.

But he’s got you locked into place. “Go on, little dove,” he says. “Try to fly away.”

The nickname he calls you hits you like a bolt of lightning, and triggers an orgasm so intense it shakes and quakes your whole body.

“ _There_ it is,” he coos maliciously, rubbing you through it, fucking you sloppier.

Every muscle spasms and trembles; thoughts tumble from your lips in incoherent moans and screeches. Your pussy clenches, each contraction hard and almost taxing on your muscles as your walls try to squeeze around his cock.

You’re limp, by the end. Your pussy is extra hot, extra wet, all puffed up and swollen. The only thing you can do is breathily mutter, “no, no, no,” over and over, like a prayer.

He grips your hips hard again, tight and squeezing. “Shit, this pussy’s gonna make me fucking nut.”

“ _No!_ ” You scramble up, getting as far as your elbows, before he pulls you onto his cock. You try to look over your shoulder, crane to look behind yourself and _tell_ him.

“Gonna dump all my cum into you, ‘n’ walk out that fuckin’ door.”

“Oh, God. Please no. Not inside me.” Your voice is a high wail; a fraught, anxious keen.

“Get you big. F-full of my baby. Never fuckin’ see you again.”

“Please. Do anything you want, I’ll suck you off, I’ll swallow—just, fuck, please don’t cum in me.”

“Get you fuckin’ pregnant.”

“No, Jude!”

His name falling from your lips, so pained and pleading, sends him into a hot sticky mess of an orgasm.

“Gngohhh—hhhuh—,”

Groaning, his hips jerking into you clumsily as he empties his balls into your cunt.

“Hhohh… _fuck_.”

He’s panting, the biggest contractions over but the smaller ones, the ones that slowly taper off into nothing are making him shiver and squeeze your soft flesh beneath his fingers.

The last dribbles of his cum seep deep into your pussy. Gradually, his breathing returns to normal.

After a few moments, Jude slips from your body and makes quickly for the light, and turns the AC on blasting cold—dispelling the whole atmosphere around you and changing it into something else.

More seams tear as he tugs the torn up shorts from your wrists. He tosses them away, before plonking down on the edge of the bed: away from you, giving you space. “I’m sorry I said, what I said.”

In a daze, feeling not quite in your body yet—this puzzles you. You’d both agreed on this. You sit up against the headboard, gingerly, your core aching with a subtle throb. You pull the sheet up over your chest and say, “I knew what you were gonna sa—,”

“No I mean, that I called you… that I said ‘dove’—it just slipped out, and I’m sorry.”

Ah. This makes more sense. There’s something you want to say, too. “That’s ok. I kinda liked it. But I’m… sorry I said your name.”

He looks up at you. “Don’t be.” He gives you a small, warm smile, the kind he’s been deliberately hiding from you for the past few days. “I kinda liked it.”


End file.
